


a different roll of the dice

by distractionpie



Series: Band Of Brothers Week [8]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s01e08 The Last Patrol, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 08:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11733384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distractionpie/pseuds/distractionpie
Summary: So much of war is just luck, the difference between an injury that can be walked off and an injury that keeps a man down for months is nothing more than the whims of chance. You walk the path you end up on.(Band of Brothers Week 2 Day 2 - Role Swap)





	a different roll of the dice

The sleet is grim as he rides on the back of the jeep and with every pothole Joe feels the twinge in his leg where the gunshot wound from the crossroads hasn’t quite healed right. He doesn’t complain though, not to the driver or even in his head, not knowing what he’s going back into and how much easier he’s had it being stashed safely in a warm dry hospital and then a replacement depot that was cold and damp but safe while the guys he’s joining back up with have stuck in Belgium fighting what rumour describes as one of the worst battles of the war.

The battered bastards of Bastogne. Joe feels a creeping dread at the prospects of seeing exactly what that looks like, of seeing what’s been done to his company, however many of them remain.

He’d tried to get back sooner, hitched a ride into Foy only to find out that Easy had already moved on and he’d ended up having to head all the way back to the replacement depot and start over again from scratch. He’s finally catching up with them in battered little town called Haguenau, covered in snow with only a measly river separating their front lines from the Krauts’.

The driver of his jeep hollers to him when they cross paths with the troop trucks heading into town, but Joe is already hitting the dirt and jogging back towards where he’s supposed to be.

The first thing that he notices is the quiet. The only time he could ever recall such noiselessness in Easy company was when they were at attention and in the few solemn hours before D-Day. Silence simply didn’t come naturally to a group of one hundred and fifty lively young men primed for battle.

The second thing he notices is the number of trucks. There’s no way one hundred and fifty men could fit on the few trucks rolling in. At a guess, he’d say they were carrying maybe half that number.

He’s been gone a long time, one month of rest and relief in the hospital and then another three of mounting anger and guilt as his every attempt to return was thwarted first by the doctors and then by the krauts, but this has to be down to some structural change -half the company riding in on a different route or already quartered in the town- because losses on the scale he’s seeing, it’s unthinkable.

He approaches the trucks quietly, because what the hell is there to say. He’s scanning for a face that looks if not welcoming then at least familiar but all he sees on the first truck are replacements and a few turned away heads and he doesn’t feel like trying to get their attention.

The second truck is a little better, a few familiar faces including George Luz who nods an acknowledgement as Joe passes, calling out “Second’s up ahead,” a clear indication that Joe isn’t welcome to stop and chat. Last time he’d checked Luz had been attached to second, but the company he’s coming back too quite clearly isn’t the one he’d left behind.

There are a lot of faces he hasn’t seen yet, and he’s running out of trucks to find them on as he catches up to the next group, mostly first platoon guys. There’s familiar faces here but not enough, Martin and Bull on one side, Lieutenant Foley and Cobb on the other with a guy jammed between them with his head buried so deep in his hands Joe doesn’t know if he’s someone he’d recognise or not.

He’s not reassured when Cobb remarks that it’s about time he got back to second, that they’re really short handed, and it’s worse when he sees them.

There has to be another truck, because right now it looks like his platoon has been decimated.

Malarkey’s standing on the centre of the truck bed, doesn’t even look at him as he approaches, and then there’s Grant, who glances at him then turns away and some fresh faced kid Joe can’t quite place who is staring at him like he’d doesn’t know what Joe’s doing there.

There’s space on the truck next to Heffron, but Joe knows his shit well enough to guess that they’ll be pulling up in the town in a matter of minutes, barely enough time to make it worth the effort of hauling his gear and himself up there, especially since it looks like none of the guys on the truck are in the mood to lend him a hand, not that he can blame them with how little use he’s been to them these past months. He keeps his mouth shut and his eyes open, walking alongside and waiting for the right moment to make himself useful and sure enough, a minute later they’re disembarking.

He slips in with second, taking the natural opportunity to integrate himself among the men even though his clean uniform still makes him stand out like a sore thumb. He doesn’t get a chance to get comfortable because Malarkey calls out, “Hey Liebgott,” and for a brief moment he feels relieved by the greeting, but then Malark adds, “Go check in with Captain Speirs would you, check he still wants you with second.” It’s one thing for them to be ignoring him, he’d expected that after such a long absence it would take awhile for his presence to be tolerated, but the implication that he no longer belongs with the guys he’s been with since Toccoa stings.

It’s easy enough to find the building they’re using as HQ. He catches a glimpse of Speirs when he enters, but doesn’t get a chance to ask for orders before the man. Joe knows the rumours about their new company commander and had always liked the sound of the man, but from what he’s seen of easy they’re in no state to be operating under a battle hungry leader. He wonders what happened to Winters, but he’s not sure he wants to find out. Losing their commanding officer would certainly go a long way to explaining why they looked so badly battered. Joe had never tried to be pals with Winters, unlike some of the other guys he liked to keep his distance from the officers, but even among those like Joe who weren’t interested in being friends Winters had been respected and liked as a leader.

He spots First Sergeant Lipton and steps into the front room, chasing his next best shot at a clear answer. Lip knows he belongs with second, so it shouldn’t be to hard to get him to send Joe back to where he ought to be. A closer look at the man, however, shows that he’s pale and even from where Joe stands his breathing doesn’t sound quite right.

“Sergeant Lipton,” he says. “You okay?”

“Course he’s okay,” George Luz interrupts, tossing a blanket over Lipton in a way that contradicts his words. “I mean, he’s got pneumonia but that ain’t so bad now he’s got a couch and a blanket,” he flashes a brief smile in Lipton’s direction, “Snug as a bug.”

Joe nods, relieved to know that at least Luz seems like the man he remembers, then looks back to Lipton. “Malarkey said to check if I was still a part of second platoon,” he says, and he knows his discontent slips into his voice. They’re his platoon and it’s pretty clear that they need him.

Lipton just nods. “Take a seat Liebgott. We’ll get you situated.”

He takes his seat carefully. “Been sick long?” he asks. It seems to him like pneumonia ought to be enough to get a guy taken off the line, at least long enough for a clean, dry uniform and to warm up, but a glance at Lipton says otherwise.

“Long enough,” Lipton says wearily, and Joe lets the matter drop.

It anybody could give him accurate information about the company he’s walking back into it would be Lipton, but the man doesn’t look like he’d welcome questioning.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Joe trying not to wince at the way Lip’s breath came in wheezes, before an unfamiliar face wanders in, looking a little lost. “Is this the company CP for easy?” 

Vest is already standing but he doesn’t bother with anything like attention and Joe takes that as his cue not to move at all. The newcomer might have Lieutenant’s bars, but he’s wearing them like a little kid playing dress up in his father’s uniform.

He’s looking for Speirs too and so Lipton directs him to wait with Joe - offers the kid coffee though, the perks of being an officer he supposes.

The kid doesn’t sit despite the invitation too - another sign of new meat, if he’d seen any action at all he’d known to take his rest where he could get it.

“What platoon are you in?”

It’s takes Joe a moment to realise the kid is talking to him but then he says, “Second,” because like hell he’s letting himself get moved.

When Speirs walks in the green Lieutenant is at attention like a shot, holding himself like a goddamn penguin, but Speirs doesn’t acknowledge him even after Lipton tries to introduce the kid. Instead he’s carrying a clock which he adds to what looks like a pile of loot and firmly directs Lipton to get some rest. It’s not quite what Joe expected from a man with a reputation as a merciless killer, but he reckons they could do worse for a CO.

He feels better still when Winters walks in and starts announcing orders, promoted then and still around, not any of the far worse possibilities that had been rattling around in Joe’s mind after noting his absence. Perhaps things are not quite as bad as they seem.

He listens to the plans, trying to absorb as much information as possible so that he can make himself useful with it. Getting on that patrol is his best chance at proving that it was circumstances which kept him away for so long and not cowardice or malingering. Winters claims they’ll need a translator, so his spot should be a sure thing, but the fact it’s Speirs picking the men could be a problem since he doesn’t know Joe.

He’s not quite sure how to guarantee that Speirs will use him effectively, although there is one thing he knows for sure. The new Lieutenant’s method of interrupting their company commander talking to their First Sergeant, after having already been blown off by Winters, is a surefire  _ not  _ to succeed.

For all his volatile reputation, Speirs doesn’t lash out at the new Lieutenant -Jones- just turns him down flat and moves right back to business, announcing Heffron, Ramirez, and McClung as the first three picked for the patrol.

Speirs looks like he’s about to walk away when Lip draws his attention to Joe.

“I’m in second platoon,” he says decisively, “But Malarkey wanted you to confirm-”

“Yeah, okay, second,” Speirs cuts him off. “Take uh...”

“Lieutenant Jones,” Lipton supplies.

“...the Lieutenant, OP2,” he orders, then turns away.

Great. Dragging a wet behind the ears West Point kid across town is exactly what Joe needs.

He nearly ends up leaving the kid behind a minute out of the door for all of his messing about ducking for cover behind every sandbag they pass, as if they aren’t in the middle of the town in broad daylight and everyone else isn’t walking about like normal. Joe doesn’t stop for him, but he does slow the place of his walk simply because it’s not going to help his case with Captain Speirs if the Lieutenant comes wandering back in because he’s fallen behind Joe and can’t work out for himself where OP2 is. Or worse, stuck by the burst of artillery clearly aimed to disrupt operations in the town. Joe ends up basically dragging him towards their outpost by the straps because it doesn’t look good if he’s back not even an hour and let their replacement Lieutenant get himself killed. As they move, the kid babbles out questions about the other officers in the platoon that rank says Joe should answer but which he ignores on the grounds of seniority and the fact that the kid follows it up by asking Joe to confirm the names on the patrol as if Speirs hadn’t told him a matter of minutes ago. Their new Lieutenant is apparently an airhead.

He herds Jones into the building, finding Malarkey in the main room. “Malarkey, this is Lieutenant Jones,” he says, making no pains to disguise his disdain. With that job done he makes his way over to where the guys are huddled around the bunks. None of them acknowledge his return and though he knows they have their reasons he can’t shake the frustrated feeling. It’s not like he’s expecting them to clamour around him and offer him coffee and compliments or anything but when Joe was last with the company guys who came back from the hospital were welcomed not glared at.

“Fifteen Lieutenants since D-day,” Chuck remarks as he passes.

Babe looks over in Jones direction and pulls a face. “Jeez, is he even out of high school yet?”

Normally Joe would laugh at a remark like that coming from Babe of all people, but he’s not sure it’s a good idea while Babe is looking at Joe like he’s the replacement, so instead he just says, “Fresh outta West Point.”

“West point?” Skinny says, leaning over the side of his bunk. “Isn’t that where Ike went?”

Joe shrugs. “I dunno. But I do know there’s going to be a patrol tonight.”

That gets the guys looking at him. “It’s a prisoner snatch across the river,” he says. “Captain Speirs wants fifteen men. It’ll probably be an NCO leading - Speirs already turned down Jones’ request to join, though I say let the kid go, he could use the experience.”

“You know who?” Babe asks.

“He’s already picked you two,” Joe says, nodding to Babe and to McClung sat next to him, then turns to where Ramirez is sitting on the bunk beside him. “And you.”

“What else did you hear?” Chuck asks.

“Not much,” Joe admits, but he’s going to give them every detail he’s got. “They’re gonna be sending over a translator for the prisoners, I guess that’ll be me, but Speirs hasn’t named anyone else yet.”

He’s about to ask for their impressions of Speirs as a company commander, when Malarkey breaks away from talking with Jones. “Listen up!” he calls, “Bad news. There is a patrol set for tonight, so far Speirs wants-”

“We know.”

“Yeah, we’ve just fucking heard.”

“Liebgott explained.”

From the look on the Lieutenant's face he doesn’t think much of Joe passing on his information without his say so,  but these are Joe’s guys and he’s not interested in keeping things back from them. Malarkey is distracted by the phone ringing, however, and a moment later he turns back to them and lets the guys know that winter shoe packs have come in and there’s showers, not that Joe needs either with his brand spanking new uniform that he wishes was a little dirty so that it didn’t serve as a constant reminder of him missing so much action.

Whatever else Malarkey is about to say is cut off by the sound of incoming artillery. It’s close as far as Joe’s ears judge but he doesn’t move until everyone else starts rushing downstairs, momentarily uncertain if he can rely on his own perception after so long away from the action.

In the hurry it seems that the guys forget about icing him out and he finds himself in the middle of the pack of men hurtling towards the basement and laughing when the artillery stops as soon as they get to safety. He doesn’t get long to savour the moment, however, as Malarkey hurries them all out onto the street for showers. Joe kind of understands how pushy he’s being about it, perhaps it’s because he has been a little spoiled by the hospital and replacement depot, but these guys do stink like hell though Joe has been fighting not to give any indication and risk further ostracising himself.

There’s a bang as they hit what’s left of the pavement and to a man second platoon turn and follow the guys running in the direction of the sound to a street over where a group of familiar forms -third platoon guys- are gathered. For a moment Joe wonders what they’re doing, lingering in the streets just moments after it had been raining artillery, and then he sees what they’re gathered around.

A body.

_ Fuck. _

He edges his way to the front of the crowd to get a look at the guy. He’s familiar, Joe knows his face and thinks he might have been around since Toccoa though Joe can't recall his name - Keen, Kane, something like that. Doc is kneeling by him but it’s clearly far too late.

Less than an hour back on the line and things were already like this. What little confidence had been renewed by seeing their command intact drained right out of Joe. This was still war and it wasn’t going to be any prettier than when he’d left it.

Speirs orders Christenson and Jackson stay and help Doc with the body, but has Malarkey moving the rest of them on. The new Lieutenant tries to linger, wants a good look at his first dead body Joe supposes bitterly.

They make their way over to the showers, but it’s no surprise there’s a line. While they’re waiting Joe is surprised to see Lipton up on his feet, especially after the man was outright ordered to bed by Speirs, but it’s pretty obvious he’d relaying orders to Malarkey.

He’s got second to huddle up and a few nearby guys from first attach themselves to the edge of the group, obviously they’ve figured out that something is up and are keen to hear the news.

Malarkey sighs. “Alright, I’m leading the patrol,” he announces. “CO wants Grant, Wynn, Jackson, and Shifty from third platoon.” 

From just behind Joe, Cobb’s voice calls out, “Want anyone from first?”

“Just Webster,” Malarkey says, and if Joe hadn’t already know that things are changed he’d be damn sure then from the way several of the guys in his platoon circle around Web, jostling him and offering him commiserations about having to go out there without them. It says a lot about what people think of Joe right now that Webster, who he remembered as never quite fitting in, is presently better liked than he is.

It’s seems he’s the only one they don’t want from second and, “Why would they pull just one guy from first?”

“They haven’t got fifteen yet, there’ll probably be more from first later,” Malarkey says. Cobb groans but Malarkey ignores him, “But Web is a translator.”

Joe blinks. Malarkey really must he exhausted to say that to Joe. “I’m back and fresh from off the line,” he points out.  “If it’s a prisoner snatch they’ll want somebody who can keep up, not Web’s textbook memorization.”

“Plenty of krauts to chat with in those hospitals, were there?” Cobb sneers.

Joe turns to him, about to snap back at this stupidity, but halts when he’s realising what he’s facing. All of the first platoon guys who’ve joined them are glaring at him and even second, who’d he’d thought would have his back, are frowning. His absence means it doesn’t matter how much better his German is than the college boy who speaks it with the most ridiculous accent Joe’s ever heard - right now what matters is that Webster is one of them and Joe isn’t.

He shuts his mouth and turns away, as frustrated as he is this isn’t the battle he wants to be fighting. And if Webster is the translator his chances to join the patrol just got slimmer. 

One by one space is cleared and the guys drift off to the showers but Webster lingers.

Joe should probably say something to smooth things over after the potential insult of pointing his German isn’t that great - no matter how true it is. But it’s not like Webster looked eager to have been given the spot on the patrol Joe wanted, you’d think he’d be grateful. “What’s this place called again?”

Webster startles, looking at Joe like Web had already forgotten he was there. “Haguenau.”

“Never heard of it,” Joe admits, the perfect opening for Webster to offer up what he knows about the area, because he learned early on that nothing seemed to bring the college boy joy like imparting totally useless information. 

Webster says nothing. It could just be that he has nothing to say about the place, but there’s something about the blank look on his face that speaks to more than just not knowing an answer.

“Aren’t you showering?” he asks. Webster isn’t as grimy as some of the others but he could still use it. His hair is lank and greasy, plastered against his head; it’s obvious he’s long since lost the habit he had of fixing his hair every time he took his helmet off, but as obnoxious as the vanity was, the neglect doesn’t suit him any better.

Webster looks from Joe to the showers and then sighs. “Yeah...” he says, shaking his head. “Yeah, I should.”

He trudges toward the makeshift tent and Joe is left on the outside, uncertain of what to do with himself now he’s alone. 

In the end he finds himself wander over to the company CP again, where he finds Luz sorting through supplies and it makes sense to stay put with the friendliest face he’s seen since he got back. A few other guys wander in and out, occasionally stopping to talk to Luz but ignoring Joe altogether. Gradually the showers must be emptying because Cobb shows up to try and pester Luz for a Hershey bar and Joe spots Webster tucking himself into a corner, although he hunches over his notebook instead of greeting anyone. Webster and his damn notebooks - still it was good to know some things hadn’t changed.

Just as Luz looks like he’s about to flip out at the growing number of guys pestering him for chocolate Perconte walks in, and Joe hadn’t seen him around yet, but he’s greeted uproariously. It’s the reactions of the others as they joke around about him having an out and coming back anyway that reveal that’s because he’s been absent and not that Joe’s been unobservant. Clearly there’s still a welcome for guys coming back from the hospital, just not guys who missed Bastogne.

Still, it’s good to see that at least one of the holes in the company getting filled in again, and without too much of a painful story to it if the jokes about Perco’s ass have anything to say on the matter.

“Oh Jesus, that reminds me,” Luz interrupts. “Web, I need you to run these to OP2 for me. Grenade launchers for the night patrol, huh. And you know what, send these two”

As Luz is distracted counting, Joe sees Cobb reaching behind him to grab two Hershey bars out of the crate. It pisses him off, not because of their thieving because the greed of taking _ two _ but he doubts he’ll make any friends by ratting him out and he can only do one thing at a time so he focuses of grabbing hold of the box in Webster’s hands and standing up.

“Don’t worry about it, Web,” he offers. “I’ve got this.”

“No need, we’ve been doing okay without you,” Webster replies cooly, and Joe loses his grip on the box in surprise. Webster hadn’t seemed to take any notice of Joe’s remarks earlier, but it looks the the shower has livened him up.

Cobb sneers, “Too right,” then leans over and tucks the second hershey bar into Webster’s pocket.

Joe raised his eyebrows, he didn’t hang out with the first platoon guys that often, but he thought he’d have remembered something as strange Webster and Cobb being buddies with each other. Cobb being old army from before the war had given him a bitter attitude toward all the guys who had joined up after Pearl Harbour and Webster’s fancy college boy crap had never made him popular. Then again, Joe’s been back hours now and he’s not seen any of the faces Web used to hang about with - and he’s realised by now there’s no pretending that the conspicuous absences in the company are due to guys being posted elsewhere.

As soon as Luz gets up to go blow the house it’s a free for all, all of the guys helping themselves to the contents of the supply crates while Vest is helpless to stop them. Joe could probably make a grab too, god knows he could use a Hershey bar instead of that D-ration shit that was an insult to the word chocolate, but he hadn’t earned it like these guys had and if what Luz was saying was true and there wasn’t enough to go around he sure as shit wasn’t gonna risk taking the allotment of somebody who’d actually seen action lately. Perconte takes over without being asked, but does an even worse job that Luz of keeping the chaos under control.

*

Joe spends most of the afternoon milling about. He’s tolerated on the fringes of conversation, but there aren’t many chances for him to speak up that don’t have him worried he’d put his foot in it. He picks up more news of the company - Guarnere and Toye hit; Compton off the line although nobody will say how; there are a few names that come with a hope they’ll be back soon, but more who are gone for good.

He doesn’t get a chance to speak to Speirs or with anybody with whom he could press his determination to be on the patrol, but when he passes the CP Lipton tells him to go along to the briefing, so it looks like the fact there are so few of them has tipped the odds in his favour.

He stays off to one side as they gather, leaves the chairs to those who are most visible fatigued. He nods to people as they come in. Some, like Babe, nod back, although he takes a seat away from where Joe is standing; others pay him no mind; the worst are the ones like Chuck, who so clearly sees him, but clenches his jaw and won’t meet Joe’s eyes as he walks past.

The room is mostly quiet, guys smoking and waiting to hear what’s about to go down, but when Alley and Cobb walk in Webster sighs audibly from his spot by the window and asks, “You too?”

“It’s bullshit,” Cobb grumbles. Alley takes a seat by the door, but Cobb pushes past people until he can join Web, making unnecessary use of his elbows along the way. Those two bring the number of guys on the patrol up to fifteen, and Vest is hanging around for some reason too.

“So who’s in charge of this mess?” Alley asks, and eyes drift to Malarkey who shrugs.

“Winters will be along to explain in a minute,” he says. He sounds like leading the patrol is the last thing he wants to do, and Joe wonders what kind of command fuckup let them get into a position where Easy had no junior officers except a Lieutenant so green he can’t even be trusted to join the patrol, let alone lead it.

Winters explains the plan quickly and concisely - boats, prisoners, destroy the outpost, and the whole battalion on covering fire. Nobody wants the trouble but as far as Joe can tell it’s a solid plan even if he’s not convinced there’s much value in getting a few prisoners now. 

Malarkey names the assault team, “McClung, Sisk, Heffron, Vest, Garcia, and Webster, you’re translator-” Joe bites the inside of his cheek in frustration. Why on earth does  _ Vest,  _ who has never even seen combat, get a spot and not him? “Grant will lead the rest of you for a base of fire.”

At least he’ll be of some use, although it’s not what Joe had wanted.

There aren’t any questions - if things go smoothly this won’t be much different from the sort of things they did in training exercises, though things rarely do seem to go smoothly for Easy.

They file out and Joe sees Winters and Malarkey have stopped and are gathered together with Speirs. His frustration is still simmering deep within him and he decides to take a chance. Arguing his case just once can’t hurt. Not if they’re letting Vest tag along.

He jogs up, stopping as close as he can get without outright barging in on their conversation.

“Sir,” he says.

They all turn to him, but he addresses the officers. 

“You have an extra man, sir,” he points out, finding he doesn’t care much about how it might look like he’s criticising officers. “And Webster on translation even though my German is better.”

Speirs looks over to Winters, eyebrows raised.

“Webster does a good job, but Liebgott is fluent,” Winters confirms.

Joe opens his mouth to continue arguing -he’s fresh from a break, well rested and clear headed, knows he copes better under fire than Webster ever did- but Speirs is already saying, “Fine,” and turning to where Web and a few stragglers are walking by. “Webster, you wanna sit this one out?”

Webster’s eyes go very wide and his whole body sags as he says, “Yes sir,” not even trying to hide his relief. He turns to Joe and for the first time since Joe’s been back Web looks like the fresh faced college kid Joe remembers as his whole face softens with gratitude. It’s almost too much to look at, especially when Joe had done it more because he wanted the spot than as a favour to Webster, and so Joe turns to Speirs -who is already back to talking strategy with Winters- and offers up a quick thanks instead.

It’s easier to walk into the room where those assigned to the patrol are gathering now that he has orders that mean he belongs there. A purpose and the opportunity to be useful straighten his spine and greasing the shine off his uniform makes him look like a fighter again instead of a replacement.

It feels good.

As they’re eating watery stew, Cobb looks around the room and asks, “Where’s Web?”

Joe can’t help but smirk a little at the knowledge he’s managed a useful change as he says, “He doesn’t need to get ready, he’s on covering fire with the rest of the battalion not crossing the river.”

Cobb glares at him. “I was in that briefing, he’s the translator.”

“Not anymore,” Joe says bluntly. “I’m the translator, I spoke to Speirs and he agrees there’s no sense in them having both of the company’s German speakers over the river.”

Cobb huffs, turning away. Coming from anybody else Joe would be pissed that they were ignoring his efforts to help, but from Cobb that’s downright polite.

The waiting itches beneath his skin, tension ratcheting up with every jolt of artillery that sends dust floating down from the ceiling to remind him just how close they are, but it’s easier to tolerate when he knows that soon there’ll be a release, that after months of waiting he can do something, fight something, instead of waiting helplessly for news.

*

The night isn’t dark when they finally mass on the riverbank. Instead, they huddle and hope that they won’t be given away by the glow of the moon and the flashes of flares, or caught under the searchlights that cut through what little cover the night provides.

The boats sit low in the water as they load up and with every pull across the river the sound of water washing around them seems teeth-gratingly loud in the quiet until it’s contrasted with the almost deafeningly revealing splash from behind them.

Joe turns to fast he feels the boat rock beneath them and tenses as he hears Skinny’s voice cry out, “I can’t swim!” an unsettling reminder that not everyone grew up by the water. The other three have got him, and Joe watches over his shoulder as they haul him to the bank. Only once they’re safe does he heed the order to focus, but he can’t help but think bitterly that for all of Cobb’s sneering this is another action he’s gonna miss, just like he’d been absent on D-day.

They unload without an issue, although water splashes into Joe’s boot, and he never thought he’d miss crawling through ice and snow but fuck there’s nothing like the sharpness it brings to his mind as they break through the kraut defences.

Malarkey’s fatigue doesn’t limit his leadership as he guides them into position, reshuffling the teams to compensate for the fact they’re running the op four men down, and securing the perimeter of the house before the assault team’s approach.

When the first shot breaks through the night, he feels the blood rush through his veins and comes alive.

The exhilaration doesn’t last long.

Jackson gets his grenade through the broken window, but he moves too fast. Joe starts to cry out to him, Malarkey is ordering him to stop but Jackson is already in the doorway, and a moment later he’s down. A bloody reminder of all Joe has been missing.

There’s no time to linger over him, Joe’s got a job to do and it’s getting the fucking krauts under control. There’s quick enough to drop their weapons and get their hands in the air, but still and quiet seem to be beyond them.

They aren’t listening to Joe and it seems that none of the assault team are listening either since he has to ask three times for some cover and it’s not until Malarkey orders McClung to cover him that Joe can finally check the kraut bastards for weapons. He can’t keep track of everything, has to focus on directing the prisoners to lift their wounded comrade and unpacking the charges. He’d forgotten how loud these things could get, even without explosions there was chaos, somebody has Jackson but Joe loses track, passing the charges off to McClung so that Joe can focus on getting the prisoners to stop fucking about and actually move before Joe decides that they don’t need all three of them.

Somebody’s finally noticed the attack and there’s gunshots as they make their way out of the OP but three prisoners are already stretching the limits of Joe’s concentration so he trusts the guys on the perimeter to handle it, focusing on getting far enough out that the guys on the over side of the river can open up and bring the real covering fire.

Getting to the boats is hardly a relief.

They were cramped on the way over, fitting three prisoners in them would have been a stretch, and with Jackson out flat it’s just not gonna fucking work. Vest is yelling about shooting the prisoners and and it’s not a half bad idea even as Joe wonders how the fuck he even got picked to this when he’s pretty sure Vest doesn’t know the first fucking thing about combat.

Still, if he drops their buddy the remaining two are likely to freak the fuck out and everyone is too busy trying to load Jackson to back him up. Even unarmed Joe’s not sure he could handle both of them without resorting to shooting them and making this whole mission fucking pointless. Instead he orders the two uninjured guys to drop the other one. Without that deadweight they squeeze in, following the boat with Jackson in across the river.

He hears the cries for a medic and is glad somebody had Jackson in hand, but he can’t turn his back on the prisoners. He finds himself wishing Webster were among the guys waiting in the basement instead of out on covering fire, because even his mediocre German would be some use in getting the fuckers to just shut up. In the end pointing his goddamn rifle at them seems to do the trick, once again proving that the bastards understand nothing but violence. Skinny is on his feet, backing Joe up in a moment, and then McClung joins them and Joe can finally loosen his grip and take in the rest of the room.

They’ve got Jackson on the table but he’s thrashing about and they aren’t stopping him, just standing around like they’re helpless without a medic there even though Joe knows they’ve all be trained better. He gets one of Jackson’s shoulders, directs Garcia to steady his legs. “Doc’s on his way,” he promises, “You’re alright. C’mon Jackson, you got all the way back ‘cross the river, you ain’t gonna have to wait might longer now. Doc’ll get you all sorted out.”

It’s not enough, Jackson’s still not settling, but then Doc is there and Joe can step back because the kids in the best hands he can be, and turn his attention back to where Skinny is struggling to keep Vest from rushing the prisoners.

A few shoves are enough to shut Vest up, and as idiotic as his actions were they’ve shut the captured krauts up. Doc has finally got Jackson to calm down so he can be checked over properly and for a few moments things are quiet, the tension unwinding from Joe’s shoulders. They’re gonna stretcher Jackson out and everything is going to be fine.

The Jackson is thrashing again, and this time Doc’s words aren’t getting through to him, everybody is watching but there’s nothing they can do.

Just like that, Jackson is gone.

This isn’t Joe’s first lost, as he tries to push it out of head as he escorts the prisoners to someplace they can be held securely, but he can’t shake the sound of Jackson’s terrified cries. He was just a kid and he died for what? The krauts are already trying to spill everything they know to Joe in an attempt to secure some mercy and it’s nothing useful, nothing they couldn’t have already guessed.

This is what he’s been itching to come back to. Lives being pointlessly thrown away. It’s such a mess and there’s so fucking little he can do to change that but it’s still better than helplessly wondering.

It has to be.

He doesn’t go back to OP2. He’s tried but not tired enough not need sleep, not yet. Let them learn about Jackson’s death from somebody else. Joe might not have known the kid well but some of them must have been his buddies and he just can’t face them. It’s one thing to lose somebody in the thick of combat, when adrenaline and necessity keep you going, but in this quiet little town where there’s nothing to do but dwell it will be harder to push past the hurt.

He smokes and lingers and overhears the news of another fucking patrol so they can throw away a few more lives over usefull fucking krauts. The one Joe ordered dumped by the river is still there, still yelling of all the fucking things, but apparently there’s nobody on his side of the river who cares enough to risk trying to retrieve him.

Joe turns his back and ignores him. He’s learned to ignore a lot.

He catches a few hours of sleep in the afternoon, he’s not going to let daylight get in the way of resting, but before long they’re being summoned to go prepare for this bullshit second patrol.

Joe doesn’t know what’s worse - that command thinks they need briefing on how to pull what will essentially be the exact same thing as they did last night, or that command is sending them out on the same stupid mission.

Nobody looks pleased to be there and Joe doubts he’s the only one uncomfortable conscious of Jackson’s absence and speculating who they’ll lose this time. Webster is slouched in one corner, Joe supposes having been picked for the assault team before and then let off he’s the logical replacement for Jackson and knowing he’s in a dead man’s spot would certainly explain the ill look on his face. Most of the others seem to be bearing up, although Cobb is swigging deeply from a scavenged bottle. 

“Whatcha looking at Liebgott?”

Joe scowls. He might be willing to tolerate a degree of alienation as a result of his absence, but he’ll look all he fucking wants.

“Wishing you were back in hospital?” Cobb continues, and Joe’s hands curl into fists. He’d expected to take some shit, but nothing so direct as this.

A few of the onlookers are shifting uncomfortably when the green Lieutenant interrupt to ask Cobb if he’s drunk, and it’s the worst move he could have made. There’s no way Cobb is going to be pleased about answering to that kid, hell, Cobb might be acting like a prick to him but even Joe bristles at the tone the question is asked in.

It’s enough to kick Cobb off on a more general rant about orders and officers that can’t possibly end well, and Joe is expecting one of the NCOs to shut it down but instead it’s Webster who gets to his feet and crosses over to join Cobb.

“We’re all sick of this shit,” he says, prising the bottle from Cobb’s grip. Surprisingly Cobb relinquishes it. “Liebgott’s only been on one patrol and he’s already remembered to be sick of this,” Webster raises the bottle to his lips and takes a sip, before holding it out to Heffron who accepts tentatively.

“Hey,” Cobb snaps, reaching back for the bottle, but Webster nudges him and he subsides.

“We could all use a bit,” he says, nodding encouragingly as Babe swigs the wine before passing the bottle on to Garcia.

As the bottle goes around the room Webster says something else to Cobb, low enough that Joe can’t catch, that has him slumping, defeated, against the wall. By the time the wine reaches Joe there’s little more than dregs left, but he never cared much for wine anyway. The mood has broken a little, although the Lieutenant looks a little petulant at the way the situation has been handled - Joe reckons they don’t teach sharing a bottle at West Point.

He’s still sulking when Winters turns up, and Joe doesn’t even know why the kid is present when there’s no way he suddenly has permission to actually do anything useful. Joe ignores him, smokes his way through hearing the plan - all the same shit but an hour later so they’ll get even less sleep tonight. It’s the army at it’s finest.

Which is why it doesn’t make any sense when Winters tells them to get a full night’s rest. That’s the opposite of what he’s ordering.

The full version of his orders take a few moments to process, and from the looks on the faces around him Joe’s not the only one struggling to make sense of it. But as Winters the room erupts with relieved laughter.

_ Moving off the line. _

It’s not so much that Joe is pleased for himself, not after waiting too many months to get back out here to the line, but he can’t help but feel elated for the men around him who have waited so long to hear those words and who so desperately need it.

Despite the call to get a good night’s rest the whole company is energetic as they take to their bunks and there’s chatter late into the night that picks right back up again when they wake the next morning.

Suddenly, people are talking to Joe like they’d never been freezing him out in the first place, and as they load up onto trucks he settles in easily, is included in the joking as they see Webster walking up just moments before they roll out - as chronically tardy as ever.

As he catches up to the trucks, Joe holds out his hand to pull Web up.

This time, his help is accepted.


End file.
